


If I Ever

by MyrddinDerwydd



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Book: Swords and Shields - Varric Tethras, Dreams, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Enemies to Lovers, F/M, Favorite Author, Fluff and Smut, Gen, Mutual Pining, Semi-Public Sex, Skyhold (Dragon Age), Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-10
Updated: 2021-02-25
Packaged: 2021-03-13 15:47:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,466
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29280954
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MyrddinDerwydd/pseuds/MyrddinDerwydd
Summary: When did she stop thinking of him as an annoyance? When did he start thinking of her as a friend? Their thoughts turn to actions in one dramatic moment by the fire in Skyhold's great hall.
Relationships: Cassandra Pentaghast/Varric Tethras
Comments: 8
Kudos: 31





	1. Dream

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to the lovely DispatchWithLove for beta reading this!

_ It was playing out like a deleted scene from Swords and Shields, but Varric is the well-muscled lover… and she is the tawdry guardswoman.  _

_ “Oh Varric, please don’t turn me away again. I only wish to be part of your story!” Her clothes are casual, provocative, and easily removed.  _

_ “If you insist, Seeker.” Varric winks, protesting very little and already shirtless, showing off his magnificent chest hair, shining golden in the firelight. “Let me get a fresh page.”  _

_ They move in passionate slow motion, crying out in pleasure, bodies arching dramatically, coupled together in a sprawling scene on Varric’s ‘desk’ in Skyhold’s main hall.  _

_ “Hmm…” Varric ponders and takes notes with one hand as he takes her body boldly, immortalizing their tumultuous relationship in ink. “...golden bosom, heaving with each ecstatic breath…I thrust within her, touching places in her soul even the Maker doesn’t see...”  _

Cassandra startles awake, breathing hard as, in the height of her pleasure, Varric’s initials sweep across her chest with a quill and a flourish. The fire in her hearth has burned low, but heat smolders in her groin and flushes her face. 

“Urrghh...” She flings herself sternly back down onto the stiff pillow, staring at the darkened ceiling of her ‘room’ above the smithy. Clearly something - well, someone - refused to leave her mind. 


	2. Story

The cool night air cuts through her clothing, but Cassandra doesn't seem to care. Maybe it cools her utterly absurd thoughts of Varric.  _ She _ thinks they are absurd - Varric despises her - but it stands to reason that the thoughts themselves are perfectly reasonable. Maybe, just maybe, this is the reason she stormed out of the smithy to roam the keep well past the second bell in the night. The wind blasts through her short cropped hair, forcing her to grit her teeth around a sharp breath to keep them from chattering. 

Finally, she makes her way up into the main keep, having acquired a skin of mulled wine from the kitchens. Josie's sitting room is blessedly empty, coals banked in the fireplace. 

"Ugghh," Cassandra barks out a disgusted noise, realizing that there are no tools or firewood in sight. "The servants must bring fresh in each morning, of course," she mutters. The first slow sip of wine is perfect, bold and soothing as she considers her options. She nods decisively and is halfway across the main hall, already feeling the flicker of warmth from the crackling fire, before she sees  _ that the dwarf is sitting at the fire.  _

Varric looks up from his desk, a sheet of parchment in one hand, quill in the other. "Seeker? You're up late." His eyes rivet her as still as a stone, frozen in the center of the hall. No worn, threadbare gaze over the rim of half moon spectacles should be so intense, should cause a person's heart and body to feel such conflicted sensations… and yet it does.

"Ahh! Varric." Cassandra blurts finally, one hand flying compulsively up to her collar, her hair, her sword belt. lt isn't clear why, but she darts quick glances around the hall as though expecting an ambush. 

"Name never changes," Varric quips. There isn't much mirth or effort in it, but it seems to break Cassandra free from her momentary shock. 

Cassandra huffs a short sigh. "Don't we all know it. The famous Varric Tethras, even more well known than the Champion of Kirkwall." She crosses the room with resigned strides, settling into the comfortable, high backed chair he offers her. They speak little, her boots and wine growing pleasantly warm in the glow of the fire she had been intending to raid for tools and wood. 

"Silver for your thoughts on a story?" 

Varric's voice is a low, easy rumble from Cassandra's left and she looks up at the words. Her sharp intake of breath reveals her surprise. Their chairs are nearly side by side, her back to Varric's table and small lantern. He glances over one shoulder at her, holding out a small sheaf of papers covered in his neat script, destroyed by slashes marking out some passages and adding to others. 

“What is it?” She hesitantly takes the papers, narrowing her eyes at the dwarf. 

“It’s just a story.” Varric waves one hand dismissively at the papers, but holds her gaze for one brief, intense moment. “Drama, no romance.” His eyes are a warm, rich brown, and realizing this makes Cassandra’s breath catch in her throat. Why has she never bothered to know what color Varric’s eyes are? She certainly thinks of him often enough, of late. 

Cassandra drags her eyes away from Varric’s with a harrumph, turning back to the fire. “Siblings and Sworn Secrets,” she reads aloud, smoothing one finger lingeringly over the text. “Being twins does not, in truth, make for similar lives.” She settles her shoulders against the chair, recrossing her ankles.


	3. Truth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to the lovely DispatchWithLove for beta reading this!

Cassandra stares into the flames, mind lost in their flickering caress, absorbed in thoughts of the twins. Two characters - and yes, two people familiar enough to those that knew them - on such divergent paths, a few fragile choices the difference between Templar, Circle, bloody death, and blighted warden. How had similar choices shaped Cassandra’s life? What did Varric do with so many paths before each character? The flames flicker quietly, crackling like stray thoughts in the mind. 

“What do you do if the person-- the character…” Cassandra corrects quickly. “If they think someone hates them, but in truth they want to tear each other’s clothes off, making passionate love on a table until they are discovered?”

Varric’s startlingly quick response is low, husky, and the words shoot straight to her core. “Seeker, if I ever fuck you there will be moonlight and poetry, not a midnight tryst on a table.” 

Her eyes snap to his, shocked… and thrilled. Suddenly the distance between them seems small, sitting here by the fire, and the look in Varric’s eyes is straight from one of her novels. It is a look that Cassandra had always imagined being turned on her. It is passion and promise, the tilt of his lips an invitation for so much more. 

“And what if…” she licks her suddenly dry lips, seeing Varric’s eyes flick to them briefly. “What if that’s what they… the characters… want? Can they not have both passion and romance?” Varric twists a feather quill slowly between two thick ink stained fingers, sending her mind racing to what she wants those fingers to do, where to touch, nipples tightening at the thought despite the warmth of the fire. This is a different kind of warmth, one that makes her shift in her seat in the long seconds before Varric replies.

“Well now…” The fire flares, crackling behind him. “You see Cassandra, those are the best kind of... characters.” 

Varric leans toward her, firelight catching on the gold of his glasses. Her heart races and her mind freezes, caught between ‘I want’ and ‘I can’t.’ The moment hangs as the distance between them disappears. She doesn’t move, she can’t. She can’t kiss--

Varric’s lips touch hers, warm, soft, and a little chapped from the winter cold. A soft sound bubbles up in Cassandra, delighted, happy. She leans into the kiss, closing her eyes and reveling in his hand on her shoulder, the stubble brushing her lower lip… Oh Maker, the taste of cider on Varric’s breath as his lips part beneath hers... 

They separate after a long moment, awe flickering across Cassandra's uncertain grey eyes. She certainly _can_ kiss Varric… perhaps she can also… love him? A slow smirk turns up the corner of Varric’s mouth as she doesn’t turn away. 

“Sometimes you give the muses what they ask for.” His words rumble into the waiting air between them. Cassandra’s chair scrapes across the floor as she shoves it away, closing the distance to Varric across the arm of his own chair. 

Cassandra’s lips are cool and eager, her hands landing on Varric’s shoulders as he rocks back with her kiss. They battle with hot breath and seeking tongues, chaos and enthusiasm pulling them together until she’s kneeling in front of his chair and he’s pulling her closer with a needy groan, knees straddling her hips. She trails one hand down his neck, fingers splaying out across his collarbone, sliding down over the coarse hair on his chest until they reach the clasped front of his shirt. Hook after hook yields to her, knuckles brushing his skin, until she sweeps the shirt open wide. Two quick ties at her waist are all that closes Cassandra’s sleeping shirt, undone in an instant by the rogue’s clever fingers. Varric spreads his hands wide, pressing gently into the firm muscles of her back, sliding slowly up from her waist, out over her shoulders, down her spine. They both yield to each others’ touch until her hips are pressed between his thighs and he is scarcely still in the chair. 

“Cassandra, I…” Varric falters, hands slowly sliding Cassandra’s shirt off her shoulders. The fine, dark grey linen flies toward her abandoned chair with a flick of his wrist. 

“Has the famous writer finally run out of words?” Cassandra teases, leaning back slightly, face flushed and bright in the firelight. Her eyes sweep down his bare chest with a clear hunger, which she follows with lingering hands. 

He chuckles warmly, eyes caressing the curves bared to him. “Words aren’t always enough.” He kisses her neck instead, making her gasp and shudder, breath hot on his neck as his hands sweep up her chest. She eventually works the heavy red and gold coat off his broad shoulders, holding his lips with hers as she drops it behind him in the chair. His hands curve over her body in smooth, sure strokes, hers constantly shifting from passionate eagerness to youthful uncertainty.

“Varric?” 

“Mmm?” he murmurs against her shoulder. 

“Do you want to…?”

The question hangs in the air, smoldering between them like a hot coal waiting for a breath to burst into flame. “Do I want to…” Varric ghosts his lips over Cassandra’s neck, tasting the warmth of her skin before turning her own words back upon her. “Tear your clothes off, then make passionate love on the table until we are discovered?” 

“Ha, ha!" Laughter bubbles out of her, bold and clear despite the late - early - hour. "Yes. Although I…” Cassandra hesitates, glancing over her bare shoulder at the empty hall of the keep. She looks back to Varric, determined. "Yes, here. Now."

Cassandra tugs loose a knotted cord around Varric’s waist, knuckles brushing his skin. In contrast, the buckles of her belt are heavy steel, dragging his fingers to a halt. He glances down, stifling a groan of pleasure as Cassandra slides her hands into his waistband. Yes, it is most definitely her swordbelt in his hands. The Seeker hadn’t even wandered from bed without a sword. 

“Well now…” Varric murmurs near her ear with a sly smirk. “I never imagined that _I_ would be the one disarming _you,_ Seeker.” 

At that comment she pulls back slightly, parted lips colored a deep bronze in the firelight. Her eyes linger on the bulging front of Varric's pants before flicking to his hands on her belt. The hands of a dwarf she once held prisoner, interrogated, and until recently, had convinced herself she despised and adored as a silver-tongued fennec of a story teller. 

"Other than in sparring…" Varric slowly tugs the tail end of Cassandra's belt free as she speaks. "You would be the first." He gives a sharp tug, rocking her hips deliberately as the leather pulls free of the buckle's prong.

"Hmm, the first to disarm the famed Right Hand of the Divine, Seeker of Truth and…" Varric pauses, hand stilling on her sword belt where it now lay in his chair. He gives her a serious look over the rim of his glasses. "Please tell me I'm not _'your first,'_ Cassandra. Because we are _not_ doing that here." His eyes narrow shrewdly at her, but his expression seems more determined than reluctant.

"Ugghh." Cassandra draws away from him with an irritated sound, sitting on the edge of her discarded chair and pulling off well-oiled leather boots. "No, you are not my first lover, Varric." 

“Now that _would_ be a tale for the ages,” Varric teases, following Cassandra’s lead by unlacing his pants and loosing himself from his smallclothes. His smirk doesn’t fade at Cassandra’s disbelieving snort as she continues getting undressed. Instead, he turns to rifle through his writing supplies, searching for something that is clearly important. He hasn’t looked for it in… well, a while, but after a long moment he pulls out a thin packet from beneath a cluster of quills, waterproof and oiled like a spare bowstring. The thin, flexible skin tube is still neatly folded and smooth, despite long disuse. 

Varric cocks a questioning eyebrow at Cassandra, turning back toward her. He holds up the sheath, which is easily two fingers wide. “Is this alright…” Words trail off as he finds her standing there in only her smalls, a short linen garment that she slides down her long legs as he watches, lips parted. Right. Soldier. He’d seen her bathe before, but mostly respected the withering glares she gave if anyone’s eyes had seemed to linger.

“I… we all drink a tea that prevents…” Cassandra stares in fascination. “Yes. It’s bi-- it’s fine,” she corrects quickly. 

Too busy setting the sheath down and dealing with his body’s rather striking response to Cassandra’s bared form, Varric misses the slip in words. She, on the other hand, does not miss the way his pants are barely caught on his hips, the fabric flaring open in front to reveal a rather impressive sight.

Eschewing words, Varric catches Cassandra’s hand and pulls her back to him, twisting their bodies smoothly to sit her against the edge of the low table. Varric’s every move now is confident, caressing Cassandra’s breasts and parting her thighs with sure, calloused hands, but with a deliberate slowness as though savoring each moment… or giving her a chance to decide this isn't actually the type of 'author appreciation' she wants to indulge in. 

Cassandra is far from idle, her responses given with open hands and muscled legs that bare Varric’s hairy thighs and make him lean into her touch. Papers, inkwells, and sundry other items are somehow cleared quickly but neatly from behind her on the table, the heavy planks underneath her rear worn smooth by many hands and mugs in the popular dwarf’s company. Their lips meet and part, swift tastes of pleasure and soft gasps and moans adding to the quietly crackling fire behind Varric. Soon enough he is sheathed in the snug skin, thick and slicked from sliding against her. She leans back, letting him press between her thighs, bracing one foot against the arm of his chair. 

“Andraste’s ass,” Varric murmurs, voice husky, “If dwarves can suddenly dream, don’t let it end now…” He skims one hand down the back of Cassandra’s thigh, now slung over his hip, as he fills her. Cassandra’s eyes flutter closed as she gives an indulgent moan. 

“Not a dream, Varric…” Cassandra rocks her hips against his and they finally began moving in earnest. Varric keeps one hand on her thigh, skating the other over a long scar across her left hip. He dives a broad thumb into the trail of black hair, pressing just above her entrance. Easy strokes there pulse in rhythm with long thrusts, nearly sliding him free from her body with each beat. 

Varric's eyes roam the hard lines and muscled curves of Cassandra's body, memorizing them as though they are a poem he intends to recite a thousand times. No chill drafts disturb their intimate dance, and the cadence of their passion rippling across the corner of Skyhold’s Hall brings no wandering guards. It calls only the rising pace of racing hearts and the paired pitch of panting breaths as they guide each other toward the climax of this night’s story.

Cassandra doesn’t throw her head back and scream Varric’s name in ecstasy, feel him touch her soul, sink into oblivion, or see the universe flash before her eyes, as so often occurs in her books. In _his_ books. Her back _does_ arch off the table, thighs tightening around his hips, and she definitely bites her lower lip to stifle a heated cry of pleasure. She twists gently in Varric’s hands as he continues, drawing more low moans amid panting breaths. 

“Ohh, Cassandra…” Varric gasps softly, bracing his hand on the table beside Cassandra’s chest. She immediately grips his upper arm, fingers pressing into the archer’s strong, tight muscles. She meets his every thrust with her hips, foot still braced against the edge of his chair. 

The table shifts underneath them, the rhythmic scrape of wood on stone joining their cries. Varric’s breaths turn to gasps, his hips pushing Cassandra and the table backward, stuttering into a deep, low, groan of pleasure. He folds forward over her, lips parted, eyes closed, glasses barely staying on the end of his nose. A sheen of sweat slicks the hair under Cassandra’s fingers as she slowly slides her hand up and down his muscular arm. 

Cassandra reaches up and runs a slightly shaky hand through her own short hair, knocking into the pitcher of cider. It earns a mildly disapproving look, but doesn’t fall over. Varric’s eyes open at the sound, flicking to Cassandra’s. 

A slow, tender smile spreads across the dwarf’s face as he straightens, hand still curved over her hip. The same expression spreads over Cassandra’s features too, surprising them both. Could there be more between them than others expect to see?


	4. Signed

A soft, incredulous laugh bubbles out of Cassandra, her lips parted as if hesitant to speak. When she does, it's with a quiet sigh. "…In my dream, you initialed my chest.” The sigh fades into a lazy scoff. “It was ridiculous.” 

Varric goes absolutely still. He stares at the woman stretched out before him, eyes suddenly clouded with betrayal as though she had just sunk a dagger between his ribs. His next breath stutters, catching in his throat. “Well… I…” he blusters. “Not every author enjoys fulfilling their fans’ fantasies.” He clears his throat, pasting on a charming smile that is a little too tight around the edges, like a frayed cord wrapped around a shattered heart. “But for your dreams, Seeker, I’ll make an exception.” He slides the heavy inkwell across the table, flicking open the lid and looking everywhere but at Cassandra. 

“Uggh,” Cassandra gives a disgruntled but satisfied laugh. “No, it was stupid. Exaggerated, like a scene from one of your novels.” She raises herself up on both elbows, a clear view of Varric’s bare stomach, thick swathe of chest hair trailing down to where his hips were locked intimately with her own. She furrows her brows, but is too sated to muster much annoyance. Something seems off… Carefully crafted half-truths are falling from Varric’s lips as though they were back to discussing Kirkwall, to hiding Hawke. 

“Yeah. Predictable. Everyone wants to be the heroine of the story.” Varric dips the well-worn quill in the ink and reaches toward Cassandra’s chest, poised to write. “If I ever write this scene,” he quips sharply, “you’ll know it’s because of you.”

“What?” Cassandra catches his wrist, feels his other hand tighten on her hip. “Varric, look at me.” Her voice has a hard edge, she doesn't know how to be soft. Not really. She is trying, but… Varric’s expression is defiant, painfully casual. “Do you truly think that is why I am here? Fulfilling some childish fantasy?” 

“You just said as much Seeker, be honest with yourself.” Varric shrugs his broad shoulders. “Varric, ‘what if that’s what the characters want,’” he scoffs. “And now we play out your dream.” He pulls his hand free, a drop of ink flicking from the quill onto a scrambled parchment tucked under her rear. 

“Stop.” Cassandra blocks his hand again, the tension in his wrist hovering the quill between her breasts. She finally catches and holds his eyes. “Varric, I have not been with anyone in nearly ten years. I did not do this lightly.” A blush flares in her cheeks again but she continues. “I did dream of you, yes. And it drew me here.” 

“Damn, Seeker, ten years? You _were_ desperate.” His eyes soften as she speaks, the tension in his hands and shoulders easing a little. “I’m sure someone besides me would have happily warmed your bed.” 

“No. Only you. I dream of you because…” She laughs self-consciously, hips shifting against Varric’s. “Maker, could we make this any more awkward?”

Varric finally grins, smoothing the pad of his thumb over Cassandra’s hip. “We could try.” He nods his chin across the wide, dark hall of the keep. “Curly could walk through the door, he patrols the walls at all the odd hours.” 

“Always with the clever suggestions,” she smirks. “Fine. Go ahead and sign my chest.” She looses Varric’s wrist, his hand dropping to rest against her bosom. “It will make the story all the more bizarre if Solas strolls out of the rotunda right now.”

Varric’s grin only widens. “As the Lady commands,” he teases, touching the quill to her skin. The sheen of sweat dampens the ink, starting the sharp stroke of the ‘V.’ He finishes the bar of the ‘T’ with a flourish, the feather scratching lightly across Cassandra’s chest, and tosses the quill into a metal tray setting precariously at the edge of the table. “There, it’s officially a Tethras story.” The edge of bitterness has fled the dwarf’s voice completely, his deep baritone warm and resonant. 

“Mmmmmm…” She watches him with wordless approval. 

He steps back, trailing a hand down Cassandra’s thigh as he slides free of her body. After surreptitiously dropping the full sheath in an empty mug he’d be sure to deal with before morning, he passes Cassandra a mostly unused cloth napkin. She takes it, stepping easily down from the low table. Peeling one of his papers off of her rear, she leans back against the table, watching as he retrieves his pants from around his knees. Her own clothing and boots are scattered on the chair and floor nearby.

The firelight flickers over Cassandra’s skin, shadows deepening the hard earned scars of a survivor. A fighter. That tough woman looks vulnerable right now, thin lips turned up in a small smile, eyes searching the half dressed dwarf’s face. Varric straightens his glasses, leaning back against the arm of his chair, facing Cassandra. He crosses his arms over his bare chest, watching her just as intently.

“Why do you dream of me, Seeker?” Varric’s soft words are blunt but kind, much as the man himself often is. 

“Varric, after everything we’ve been through, I find that I truly care for you.” Cassandra lets out a long breath. “Maybe even… love you. As much more than a friend.” The words felt as strange to say as they did to hear, but she said them anyway. It had to be done. She’d made the mistake of not telling Varric the whole story once before, she wouldn’t do so again. 

“Well, shit…” Varric’s voice catches on the words, thick with emotion. “And here I was, all set for a broken heart.” He clears his throat. “To set the record straight… I never hated you. Thought you were raving mad and that talking to you made days of fighting dragons in the Bone Pit seem a fond memory… Yes.” He chuckles, and she rolls her eyes. “Yeah. It hurt more as time went on.” Now it's Varric’s turn to look vulnerable, one finger tapping idly on his forearm. He takes a deep breath, holding her gaze with his own. “It was easy to hide it. But I’ve loved you for a long time, Cassandra.” 

“Good.” 

Varric’s breath whooshes out of him as Cassandra steps in and kisses him soundly, one hand cradling the back of his neck. He wraps both arms around her waist and pulls her close, skin to skin. They revel in the feeling, the taste of a kiss somehow different now, deeper, sweeter, after having said that word… Love. 

Love is a tiny thing, a single word, four letters.

Love is as sweeping and unfathomable as the Fade itself.

It is a long moment before their lips part, and Cassandra presses her forehead to Varric’s with a warm sigh. It is a new feeling for both of them, and the promise of so much more.


	5. Seen

“Ahem.” A feminine voice sounds behind them, with a familiar Orlesian accent. 

Cassandra turns her head enough to see Leliana’s amused expression - hip cocked to one side, arms crossed, eyes twinkling at the edge of the firelight - and closes her eyes with a groan. 

“At least this is decisive,” Leliana continues overtop Varric’s breathy chuckle, “I have no need for my little birds with such a delightful view of the event for myself.” Her eyes openly roam the disarray and naked bodies before her, undoubtedly coming within a feather’s weight of the truth of recent events.

“Leliana--” Cassandra begins, her voice both warning and pleading. Leliana might be her closest friend, but the woman is most definitely a spymaster and incorrigible gossip. 

“Oh no.” Leliana cuts them off, tapping one finger thoughtfully on her lips. She meets Cassandra’s eyes, raising an eyebrow that demands an answer to an unspoken question -  _ Are you okay? _ Cassandra’s instant smile is warm, the small nod confident. Leliana returns the nod a heartbeat later, shoulders visibly releasing the last of her tension. 

“You two are in no position to talk,” Leliana continues, bemused. “I can tell you that Solas is currently asleep, as usual for the Fadewalker, but Dorian is awake in the library and could wander down here at any moment.” She winks at them, eyeing Varric’s hand as he idly caresses Cassandra’s bare back. “One hour. That is how long you have until the cooks arrive to start the morning meal.” She turns and strides across the hallway toward the garden door. “You can negotiate who hears the whole story later, after sharing any details I'm missing, Cassandra.” 

“Ugghh.” The annoyed sound Cassandra makes mixes with Varric’s throaty chuckle, neither truly upset at Leliana’s discovery of their tryst. 

“Well, it could have been worse!” 

"Mmm… Quite." Cassandra’s lips quirk in a wry smile. "It could have been Cullen who found us." 

"Sweet Maker!" Varric pantomimes the Commander’s shocked exclamation, “I am  _ not _ seeing this!”

They both dissolve into laughter in each other’s arms, hearts lighter and fuller than they had been in a long, long time. 


End file.
